


The Substance XX Affair

by LeetheT



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT





	The Substance XX Affair

Illya Kuryakin stood on the balcony, champagne flute in hand, scanning the well-groomed shrubberies. Was it ironic or simply a fact of life that the more festive the occasion, the less opportunity he had to enjoy it?

Seeing only UNCLE’s people in the underbrush outside the hotel, he turned around to reenter the hall, pausing at the French doors to observe his partner making the rounds of the assorted international dignitaries and celebrities.

As always, Illya marveled. Tuxedo-clad as he was himself – but eminently more comfortable in it – Napoleon worked the room like a politician, never stopping for long, managing to speak to, or listen to, nearly everyone, leaving smiles in his wake as he passed untouched through a sea of potential enemies.

Illya smiled to himself. He could do it if he had to, but he’d rather leave it to Napoleon. Accommodating the average human was a lot of effort for him. He preferred the dirty work – even if he did like to grouse about it.

And there was no denying his partner had a gift. Many gifts, to be honest. Illya stayed by the door, watching as Napoleon chatted up the German ambassador and his wife – persons proximate to their goal for the evening, the former Nazi chemist Dr. Hans Holberg.

Napoleon was on his game: charming, sophisticated, amusing. Though impressed by the show, Illya thought idly that he preferred the real Napoleon – although even the real Napoleon had two faces. There was the hard-as-diamond professional agent Illya unhesitatingly trusted with his life in the direst circumstances, and the boyish all-American who would drag his protesting partner to a baseball game, or kite-flying, at the drop of a hat. Though he’d never confess it to Napoleon, once he’d gotten used to that fun-loving side of his partner, he’d grown to cherish it.

That admission, private though it was, surprised him, even discomfited him a little. That he, the dour introverted Russian, actually delighted in that most un-dour, un-Russian side of his partner, was a blow to a once-solid self-image that had already been shaken a few times during the last five years.

Illya glanced at his glass. Half full. No blaming the sudden burst of sentimentality on alcohol.

Mr. Waverly, resplendent in a slightly out-of-date tuxedo, strolled up to him.

“Have you or Mr. Solo made contact?”

“No sir. I haven’t seen Dr. Holberg yet.”

Both men scanned the crowd. “Well, he should be here. After all, he contacted us. Whatever he has that he doesn’t want his own government to have must be of some significance. He’s been the Germans’ top chemical man since the war. He’s also been rumored to have KGB ties.”

“KGB?” Illya echoed, puzzled. “And the Germans? Strange bedfellows.”

“Indeed. And we’d prefer neither of those ... bedfellows learn this information before we do.”

Napoleon was circulating again, and Illya realized one thing that marked him as an agent, at least to a trained eye: the way he moved, strong, smooth, controlled...bottled mayhem. The tuxedo hid the highly trained body, but couldn’t hide the power and grace.

Again Illya glanced at his glass, surprised at himself. Empty. But this was only his second glass. Or was it the third? Enough, in any case; his mind was wandering into Here Be Dragons territory. _Or was it Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here?_

“Why do you suppose Dr. Holberg has had a change of heart?” he asked, setting the glass on a side table.

“He didn’t say,” Mr. Waverly said. “Presumably we’ll find that out once we bring him home. Which I don’t need to remind you needs to be done with all speed  –  and discretion. We don’t want an incident here.”

Illya sighed mentally. “Yes sir.”

His boss moved off into the crowd again, accepting a glass of champagne from a waiter. The string quartet began to play again, and Illya was caught for a moment listening. They were excellent.

“Very nice.”

He realized Napoleon was at his elbow. Without looking at his partner he said, “Tales from the Vienna Woods.”

Napoleon chuckled, drawing Illya’s gaze.

“I was referring to the tux,” he said, looking his partner up and down. His glance had the warmth of a caress, and Illya steeled himself, wondering why his partner, as he occasionally did, was wasting it on him. He was able to charm both sexes, probably all the way into his bed if he wanted, although as far as Illya knew he’d stuck to women there. “You clean up pretty well.”

Illya snorted a soft laugh. “I’d be clean all the time if it weren’t for the impossible, dangerous, violent and dirty situations in which my partner constantly embroils me.”

Napoleon smiled briefly. “A little dirt’s good for the soul.” He raised his glass. “How’s it look?”

Illya met his partner’s eyes, said, straight-faced, “Half empty.”

Caught off guard, Napoleon stopped in mid-sip to chuckle. “I meant the situation, you pessimist.”

“No sign of Holberg yet. Nor of anything untoward.”

A tall brunette in a diamond-studded gown strolled past, running her gaze up and down both Napoleon and Illya and smiling.

Napoleon finished his drink, set the empty glass beside Illya’s. “I feel a dance coming on.” He adjusted his tie, glanced at his partner. “Unless _you_ prefer to take her up on her, ah, invitation?”

A little surprised at the offer, Illya said, “Go ahead. I enjoy watching you work.”

“It’s no work at all,” Napoleon said, suave smile back in place. “You should try it sometime.”

Poker-faced, Illya said, “Who would lead?”

Napoleon’s doubletake was priceless, but he came back quickly, touching his chest. “Senior agent, two years.”

Illya snorted. “Go cut a rug.” He gently shoved his grinning partner in the direction of the brunette, discreetly waiting a few yards away.

~*~*~

Illya spotted Dr. Holberg a few minutes later, standing against the wall near the French doors. He worked his way through the crowd and approached the stocky, grey-haired man.

“Dr. Holberg?”

The man glared at him; Illya realized he was deeply unsettled.

“Who are you?”

“Illya Kuryakin.” He reached into his jacket for his identification and Dr. Holberg’s eyes widened comically. He backed into the wall, trembling, hands upraised.

“No! I told you already – “

Illya pulled out his ID. “Dr. Holberg, I am with the UNCLE.”

Other guests, glancing their way curiously, returned to their sedate merrymaking as the scientist deflated, seeming to shrink within his tuxedo.

“I apologize,” he said. “I thought you were from ...”

“From?” Illya prompted.

“It doesn’t matter.” He mopped his brow. “I think I need a drink.” He scanned for a waiter while Illya considered his overreaction. Who had he thought he was? They’d never met before; the only clue would have been his obviously Russian name. Had he been in contact with the KGB recently? If so, it hadn’t concluded on a friendly note – hardly surprising considering the animosity between Germany and the Soviet.

A waiter walked past the French doors, tray of glasses upraised; Dr. Holberg advanced on him and laid claim to a glass, turning back to Illya. The Russian declined the offer of champagne. The orchestra finished the piece to a smattering of polite applause.

“Now, doctor. You said you have something for us?”

Holberg nodded, moved a little closer. “I developed it for my government, but ... I cannot let this be used. Once I fully realized what I had, I knew – “

Three sharp cracks shattered the quiet.Holberg’s arms splayed; the champagne glass flew from his hands and he slammed into Illya with a gasp.

Illya caught him, eased him to the floor, feeling hot blood on his fingers. He drew his weapon and crouched over Holberg, scanning the screaming, stampeding crowd of tuxedoes and evening gowns. Napoleon, gun drawn, raced for the balcony and leapt over the marble balustrade into the gardens.

“Everyone remain calm!” A voice called out – one of UNCLE’s men, Illya thought. “Please, move toward the foyer. Remain calm!”

Illya stripped off the doctor’s jacket, ripped open the dress shirt; two, no, all three bullets had entered his back, well grouped. The man’s heartblood was pumping out the holes. Illya shouted, “Can someone call an ambulance?”

The doctor, eyes gaping, strained to rise, reaching for Illya. “Substance ...” he gasped out. “Substance ... double ... X ...” Illya grasped his hand and felt something small and hard.

“Take it ...” Dr. Holberg whispered. “To UNCLE ...” He fell back. Illya quickly slipped the disk into his jacket pocket. Running feet approached as he pressed his hand to the doctor’s wound, trying in vain to stanch the flow of blood. He glanced up.

“You all right?” Napoleon asked. Gun still in hand, he scanned the room. Their people had managed to herd the terrified guests into the foyer, and the hall echoed in emptiness.

“Better than he is,” Illya said.

“There’s an UNCLE med team on the way.” Napoleon went down on one knee, ran his eye over the man on the floor.

“The shooter?”

Napoleon shook his head. “From the balconies, but he’d already taken out our two men before he took his shot. He was gone before we got out there.” He looked his partner over. “You’re sure you’re not hit?”

The sarcastic retort with which Illya generally favored such silly questions soured in his mouth when he saw the concern in his partner’s eyes.

“No. I mean, yes.” He stopped. _What is wrong with you_? “The blood is Dr. Holberg’s. They hit the man they were aiming for.”

Napoleon glanced down. “So much for coming in from the cold.”

Illya followed his gaze. Dr. Holberg was still. Illya removed his red-drenched hands from the bullet holes.

Mr. Waverly approached, looked the scene over, and said, “The med team is here. I take it too late?”

“Yes sir,” Illya said, rising. It was at that moment he knew he’d had more champagne than was good for him. His head and stomach spun in markedly different directions. Looking toward the balcony, he glimpsed a quick movement, a face in the darkness, a face he knew from somewhere, a face that knew him.

He drew his weapon. Reading the movements Napoleon spun, gun upraised, putting himself between Waverly and the Frenchdoors as Illya darted toward them, through them, onto the balcony.

The cool night air slapped him in the face, helping to clear his head. The balcony was deserted; no movement in the trees or bushes. In that instant his mind dug up the name to put to the narrow pale face he’d seen, a name, and a face, that he’d not thought about in 10 years.

Napoleon came out, half-crouched, straightening when he saw Illya holster his gun. “What was it?”

Illya turned around. “I saw someone.”

Napoleon examined his partner’s face. “Someone you knew?”

Illya started to speak, stopped. “I don’t know.”

Brows raised, Napoleon holstered his weapon. “I’d say you do.”

Irritated, Illya strode past his partner. “It was a glimpse. It looked like someone I knew a long time ago. But I can’t be sure.”

Napoleon trailed him, sending out palpable concern waves that for some reason irritated Illya more.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he snapped.

Napoleon chuckled. “Hm. I’d have said there’s plenty wrong with you. But I kind of like you anyway.”

“Waverly’s gone. Let’s get back to headquarters.” He headed for the door, circumventing the med team collecting Dr. Holberg’s body. One of them glanced up, took in the congealing blood on his hands, and silently passed him a towel. Illya wiped himself as clean as he could and kept walking. Napoleon caught his arm.

“Uh, I’ll drive, if you don’t mind.”

Illya again started to protest. Then stopped. “All right. I’m too drunk to argue,” he snarled, fighting to hold on to his scowl as Napoleon laughed out loud.

“Remind me to keep you away from Champagne,” he said, guiding his partner out the doors. “Then again ...”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

~*~*~

Illya slid the disk out of his pocket and set it on the table. “There it is. Presumably it’s some sort of miniaturized data chip.”

“Substance Double X...” Mr. Waverly mused aloud. Illya shrugged.

“That was what he said.”

“Mr. Solo, I’d like you to follow up on Dr. Holberg tomorrow. Who killed him and why. See what forensics and pathology turn up.”

Napoleon rose. “Yes sir.”

“Mr. Kuryakin, take this down to the lab and see what you can do with it in the morning. You have some expertise in the area; I’m assigning you to oversee the project, at least for the time being. If these data are worth a man’s life, it behooves us to see his final wishes are carried out.”

“Yes sir.” Illya hesitated. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Waverly blinked, looked up. “Mr. Kuryakin.”

“About Dr. Holberg. If I had been more ... alert...”

Waverly shook his head, more impatient than forgiving. “Nonsense. You weren’t on guard duty; you were on escort duty. The guards ... well, they’ve paid the penalty for their failure, I’m afraid.”

Illya still didn’t shift; he was very aware of Napoleon watching him. Evidently Waverly hadn’t noticed the effects of his overindulgence, but Illya knew Napoleon had.

“Go on,” Waverly said, his tone holding no more irritation than usual. “You’re dismissed, both of you.”

Napoleon touched Illya’s arm, and the Russian followed his partner out.

“Headache?” Napoleon asked sweetly.

“No thank you; I have one,” Illya said through gritted teeth.

“I’ve heard it’s better to stay awake through a hangover than go to sleep,” Napoleon remarked.

“Then it’s a good thing I plan to stay awake working on this chip,” Illya muttered.

“Well, that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Napoleon said. “Besides, Mr. Waverly said in the morning.”

“I’m curious about it,” Illya said.

Napoleon shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Illya eyed him sidelong. “What _did_ you have in mind?”

Airily Napoleon said, “Never mind. You wouldn’t have liked it.”

“Oh.”

“It would have been fun. Frivolous.”

“I see.”

“Playful. Decadent. Self-indulgent. All those things you can’t stand.”

“All _right_.” Illya rubbed his aching forehead. “I get the message.”

“No,” Napoleon said. “I don’t think you do.”

At the door to the elevators they stopped and Illya squinted up at Napoleon from under his still-massaging hand. “Then what is the message? Speak slowly, please. I’m not at my best.”

Napoleon grinned, reaching up to tweak Illya’s tie. “Even so you’re worth any three other agents. Although you’re lucky Mr. Waverly didn’t realize how much you’d had to drink. I’m going to go down to the gym and soak the day away in the spa. You sure you wouldn’t rather join me than sit hunched on a stool in the lab all night?”

Illya, caught by his instinctive reaction – alarm – shook his head. “No thank you. I’ll work for a while. That usually gets rid of my headaches.”

The elevator doors opened. “Well, if you change your mind you know where I’ll be.” Napoleon waved and started off down the hall.

In the elevator Illya pondered his overreaction. There had been something a little strange, to be sure, about Napoleon’s behavior all evening, but there was nothing to be uneasy about in soaking in a spa with his partner; they’d done it countless times after missions that had left them more bruise than flesh. Why had it almost ... panicked him?

Perhaps it was only that face he thought he’d seen on the balcony of the embassy; that was what he really wanted to ponder right now. He could do that in the lab, alone. Soaking in the spa with his partner right now would only ...

Would only distract him.

Illya shook his head at himself, his own mental wanderings. _You should just go home and get some sleep, hangover be damned._

He went to the lab, deserted at this hour, perched himself on a high stool under a strong light and examined the little plastic chip. The first problem, of course, was determining what method of recording Dr. Holberg had used; if he’d encrypted the data, that would be problem number two.

~*~*~

Boris Golkov phoned in on a secure line.

“Malikov.”

“Dr. Holberg is dead.”

“The formula?”

“We searched his laboratory while he was at the soiree. Nothing.”

“Did UNCLE make contact with him at the party?”

 Boris hesitated. “Yes sir.”

“Then they have the formula.”

“Sir...it was Illya Nickovetch.”

“Kuryakin!” Silence, as Malikov considered. “Yes. I have heard about our Illyusha and his famous partner Napoleon Solo.” His voice changed from speculation to decision. “Abort our previous plan. I have a better one. Or I will.”

“Sir?”

“I’ll get the formula. And Kuryakin too.” Malikov paused again, a gloating pause. “Watch them. I’ll be in touch.”

“Yes sir.”

~*~*~

Buried alive. Blackness all around, pressing against his body, his face, his eyes. Heart and lungs exploding with panic, he groped furiously upward, arms and legs flailing, open mouth trying to suck in air, but blocked.

Almost free of the suffocating darkness – and a hand clamped down on his shoulder. Fresh panic surged in him –

“Illya.”

He woke up, face pressed into the arm of the couch in the lab, arms pinned under his very heavy body. When he lifted his head the blood started pounding in his temples. He groaned and Napoleon turned him over.

“You shouldn’t sleep that way,” Napoleon said.

“It’s the only way I know how,” Illya grumbled as he adjusted his stiff limbs, working himself into a more or less upright position. He slid down on the couch and leaned his head gingerly against the back of it, looking at his partner through barely open eyes.

“Nightmares are the inevitable result of going to sleep after drinking too much Champagne,” Napoleon lectured, but in a mercifully quiet voice.

Illya ventured a Russian curse. Napoleon grinned and left the couch. Illya closed his eyes, orienting himself. He’d at least gotten Dr. Holberg’s data into the computer before deciding to take a break. Some reward for his current headache. He had yet to make a connection between that face and the data chip – other than the obvious.

A cold cloth draped itself blessedly across his forehead. He sighed, sliding a little farther down the couch. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?” he mumbled as the coolness eased his throbbing head. He felt the couch shift as Napoleon sat down beside him.

“Talk is cheap.” He could hear the smile in his partner’s voice. “Drink this.”

Illya shifted the cloth so he could see. Napoleon was holding out a beaker of clear liquid.

“Tail of the dog?” he asked.

“That’s _hair_ of the dog, and no. It’s water. You’re dehydrated. What kind of scientist are you?”

“One who rarely drinks too much.” He took the beaker, scowled at it –  “Where has this been?” – and drained it without waiting for an answer.

“It had the faint scent of bitter almonds, but don’t worry; I wiped it out with my finger,” Napoleon said, taking the beaker back. “Any luck on the chip?”

“Yes. It contains a formula for some sort of gas. I didn’t get any further than that.” He started to get up, but a fresh explosion of pain in his head aborted the mission. Napoleon clucked his tongue.

“It’s time for you to go home.”

“I don’t have my passport.”

Napoleon got up, pulled him, groaning, to his feet, one hand raised to catch the soothing cloth.

“Not where you came from. Home. I’ll drive.”

Illya glared at him. “I have a better idea.”

Napoleon regarded him, one eyebrow raised.

Illya sighed. “ _You_ drive.”

“Good plan.”

They drove to Illya’s apartment building (“Can you shift more quietly?”) and took the elevator up. Napoleon unlocked the door while Illya leaned his head on the wall.

Once the door was open Illya sidled past his partner, one hand held up – “I’m fine –” and made it three steps down the hall before bumping into the wall. Catching himself, he vaguely heard the door close and lock behind him, then strong hands were guiding him along.

“Good thing Mr. Waverly doesn’t know how much you really had to drink tonight. What were you thinking?” Napoleon’s voice held a hint of a chuckle.

“I was thinking – “ _About my partner_. Illya snapped his mouth shut just in time, closed his eyes against the spinning of his apartment, and let Napoleon carry him along.

His body was plunked down on his bed. His head followed sluggishly a few seconds after, and someone removed his shoes and socks while he reintroduced the two to one another. They shook hands and agreed that the most prudent position right now would be horizontal. Illya flopped back on his bed.

Then groaned as he was pulled upright.

“Come on, tovarish. You’re in a tux. You can’t sleep like that.” Napoleon pulled off his tie, jacket, and shirt. Illya forced his eyes half open, watched Napoleon hang those items up in his closet and return, kneeling in front of him.

“What –”

“Come on. Cooperate, or no bedtime story.” Napoleon unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, pulling them off while Illya gritted his teeth with the effort of not moving, not blushing, not speaking, not thinking.

He bestirred himself to crawl under the blankets while Napoleon was hanging up his trousers. Casting one arm over his eyes he waited for everything to stop pounding.

When the side of the bed shifted he jumped, arm flying.

“Whoa – “ Napoleon, cloth in one hand, glass in the other, held both out in a warding gesture. “Touchy, aren’t we?” He set the glass at the bedside. “You should have company in your bed a little more often, then it wouldn’t startle you so much.” Napoleon calmly withstood Illya’s glare. “Relax. I’ll be gentle.” He laid the cloth over his partner’s forehead again. “I can’t remember ever seeing you this ... ah ... overindulged. Is there a reason?”

“You,” he groaned – and cursed to himself. He knew that being drunk loosened one’s tongue – but no one had ever said being hungover did the same. _Get out of this one, Illya Nickovetch._

“Me?”

Illya pushed the cloth up enough that he could see out from under it. Napoleon was looking at him, bemused. Maybe even a little amused.

“You’re saying I drive you to drink?” he asked, a smile waiting in the wings.

“Constantly,” Illya said, taking refuge in surliness.

Napoleon chuckled. “I don’t know what to say.” He adjusted the blankets, so tenderly that Illya felt deeply ashamed of his nastiness.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean it.”

Napoleon didn’t look at him at first, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “I think you did,” he said, crossing his hands on his knee and glancing up under his brows at his now very uncomfortable partner. “The only question is what do we do about it?” His expression was serious, calm, difficult for Illya to read in his condition. He thought he detected a warning glint in Napoleon’s eyes. What it warned of, though, he couldn’t tell.

He took a deep breath, spoke carefully. “I apologize for what I said. Thank you for bringing me home. I’ll see you at headquarters in the morning.”

Napoleon planted his hands on either side of Illya and leaned in until his face was less than a foot from his partner’s. Astonished, Illya shrank back into his pillow, thinking for one dumbfounding moment Napoleon was going to kiss him.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want to discuss this?” Napoleon asked, voice a mulled whisper, bourbon-colored eyes searching Illya’s face.

Illya swallowed. He could smell – he could _taste_ – his partner’s scent, clean, masculine, faintly musky. His gaze shifted to Napoleon’s mouth and he yanked it back up, panicked, feeling his face heat.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, forcing conviction into his tone. His heart was fluttering in his throat.

Napoleon smiled a little and withdrew. “All right, then.” He touched his partner’s cheek lightly. “Sleep well. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

~*~*~

Illya breathed a sigh of relief as he got out of headquarters once again without Napoleon seeing him. Guilt stabbed at him, though, as he drove home. Three days of avoiding his partner – he had to admit it was getting ridiculous.

 _What are you afraid of? That he’ll give you a hard time about being drunk? About having to tuck you in?_ Neither situation was a novelty – and he’d seen Napoleon three sheets to the wind, and had to tuck him in himself, more than once. _What made this time so different, so troubling that you’re afraid to meet his eyes, afraid of what you might see there?_

_Or what you might not?_

Illya cursed out loud. This was ridiculous. If he had made a fool of himself, it was in front of the only person in the world before whom he was willing to do so.

“I didn’t do anything!” he snarled _. No. You were only damn near in his arms, drunk, and blushing like a virgin. Napoleon’s not blind or stupid. You think he didn’t notice? That’s why you’re embarrassed to face him. You don’t know what he’s going to do about it, what he might make of it – something or nothing – and you don’t know which you would prefer._

He cursed again. He wanted to ignore it, pretend it had never happened. What was the likelihood of Napoleon forgetting about it?

Illya snorted. _Zero, as long as you keep avoiding him. That makes it an even bigger issue. He’s not going to just let it lie after you’ve hidden from him for three days._

Illya resolved at that point to talk to Napoleon about it as soon as possible. In the office – outside he would feel too vulnerable.

_And what are you going to say to him, Illya Nickovetch? That you were too drunk to know what you were doing? That you were delirious? That you forgot it was him?_

_Or are you going to tell him the truth?_

Illya shook his head, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. It went against his grain to lie to Napoleon. That, really, was the crux of the matter. He’d rather stay silent than lie, but he didn’t have that option.

Illya continued cursing under his breath, in various tongues, all the way home. He found it made him feel marginally better. He trusted Napoleon utterly, but he couldn’t trust him with this particular truth. It would endanger everything that mattered to him, in a way that couldn’t be fought with guns or fists.

“I was drunk,” he said. “Too drunk to know what I was doing.” He repeated it to himself as he climbed the stairs. It was near enough to the truth that he thought he could say it semi-convincingly. At least convincingly enough that Napoleon might, for reasons of his own, let it lie.

There was a note halfway under his door; thinking it might be from Napoleon he picked it up nervously. It wasn’t from his partner. He read it twice, stared at the signature for half a minute, and turned around to return to headquarters, the little scene with Napoleon shoved conveniently to the back of his mind.

~*~*~

Napoleon pushed aside the autopsy report on Dr. Holberg and sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. Nothing he hadn’t seen a thousand times before, but it never failed to depress him.

He glanced at the clock. 7. What he needed was a dark, quiet pub and a good glass of scotch, congenial companionship ... but not, he realized, of the female kind.

He looked across the room at his partner’s desk. It had been empty of his partner for the last three days. He knew Illya was working on Substance XX, overseeing the lab techs on deciphering the formula for some sort of gas. But he also knew that the lab techs were perfectly competent and didn’t need to be overseen. And he knew, as part of the sixth sense he and his partner shared, that Illya was avoiding him.

Maybe he’d gone too far the other night in pushing the advantage Illya’s overindulgence had given him. He didn’t regret pushing. It was part of his longterm strategy of knocking down the walls Illya had built around himself; Napoleon respected his partner’s private nature, but the glimpses he’d been granted of the riches behind those walls had long ago provided him the incentive to continue his careful assault.

That incentive had sure as hell gotten a boost the other night, Napoleon thought, smiling to himself. Illya’d been as much as in his arms, they’d been within a breath of kissing, and there was no misunderstanding the electricity between them. Napoleon himself had gone home with a hard-on to deal with and some thinking to do, and if Illya hadn’t been feeling something similar, Napoleon vowed he’d throw away his merit badge for sex.

But Illya had backed off, chosen not to cross that last line. For whatever reason, if he had genuinely disturbed his legendarily touchy partner, Napoleon wanted to know it; he’d gladly apologize.

Perhaps he should stop by Illya’s tonight, apologize, get things back on an even keel. _Wait for another chance_. Napoleon grinned, remembering how close he’d been to tasting that tempting mouth.

The door opened and Illya came in, stopped in apparent surprise to see Napoleon, then continued to his desk.

“I thought you’d gone home,” Napoleon said.

“I forgot something.” He opened a desk drawer, bent, peered in, pulled something out, shoved it into his pocket and stood straight again.

“Done for the day?” Napoleon asked. Illya nodded.

“Me too. Want to head over to Pellini’s for dinner?”

Illya paused, awkward, clearly distracted. “No. Thank you, Napoleon. Not tonight.”  He shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Got a date?” Napoleon asked, smiling over his disappointment

Headed for the door, Illya stopped, gave his partner a sidelong look. “Uh ... no.”

Napoleon got up, came around his desk. “What’s the matter?”

The expression on Illya’s face shouted _caught_ but he said, “Nothing.”

Napoleon laid gentle hold of his arm. “You sure?” Meaning, of course, not are you sure nothing’s wrong, but are you sure you don’t want to tell me.

Illya looked down at Napoleon’s hand on his arm, raised his eyes – intense but unfathomable – to touch Napoleon’s briefly.

“What’s the problem?”

Illya looked away, voice dismissive. “It’s ... personal.”

Napoleon hesitated, torn between his natural desire to ask – to help – and knowledge of how hostile Illya could get when pressed, especially right now.

Illya drew his arm free. “I have to go.”

“Ill–”

The door opened and closed.

“–ya...” Napoleon stared at the door for a moment, irritation, curiosity and concern jostling in his mind.

His intercom buzzed. Eyes still on the door he backed over to his desk, hit the button. “Solo.”

“Mr. Solo. Would you come to my office immediately please.” Though grammatically a request, the words – like all Mr. Waverly’s words – were in fact an order.

Napoleon shut off the intercom. When he entered the corridor Illya was long gone.

~*~*~

Mr. Waverly’s expression was troubled. Napoleon stood behind the chair in which he usually sat and waited an unusually long time for his boss to speak.

“I see Mr. Kuryakin has left for the evening,” he said. “Again.”

Puzzled, Napoleon said, “Yes sir.” Something occurred to him. “Is he on an assignment?”

Mr. Waverly looked up in surprise. “He didn’t tell you?”

“He didn’t say anything to me, sir. What’s going on?”

“Sit down, Mr. Solo.” Mr. Waverly began his ritual pipe-filling. Napoleon, knowing the order to sit wasn’t one that had to be obeyed, said:

“Please, sir. What’s going on?”

His superior sighed, looked Napoleon up and down.

“Mr. Solo ... I have reason to believe a conversation will be held in ...” he glanced at his watch. “In one hour and 20 minutes, at a pub called the White Dog.”

Still puzzled, Napoleon glanced at his own watch. “Eight thirty at the White Dog.”

“Yes. Mr. Kuryakin received a note asking him to meet someone there. It would behoove us to know what is said during that conversation. Discreetly, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Is there someone you might send ...?”

“I’ll go,” Napoleon said, finally getting at least the gist – obviously he wasn’t going to be getting any details.

Again Waverly looked him up and down, measuring Napoleon knew not what.

“Yes, well, I might have expected it.” Again Waverly scowled down at his pipe. Napoleon waited, holding the back of the chair.

“Very well,” Mr. Waverly said. “Go ahead. And, Mr. Solo ...”

The door slid shut and Mr. Waverly found himself talking to an empty chair with deep finger indentations in its back.

~*~*~

At the back of the bar under the shadows of a beam Napoleon sipped his scotch, eyes on the door. Illya walked in 20 minutes before his appointed time, which was expected, and cased the joint, giving no sign whatever that he realized he was being watched.

That also was expected. Illya’s body language said plainly he was not there to meet a friend. He moved through the mildly jostling crowd to the bar, slid one blue-jeans-clad hip onto a stool, and waited, not removing his battered leather jacket.

Napoleon had chosen his spot well; when the tall, cadaverous black-haired man (one of the three in the bar Napoleon had thought likely) crossed the room and sat next to Illya, Napoleon was in a position to see them both in profile as they spoke. He would never have been able to hear them if not for the bug (again, and not coincidentally, one of three) he’d planted earlier that evening.

The tall man ordered two of what he’d been drinking all evening: vodka. The Russian accent Napoleon had suspected flowered in the next sentence.

“Good to see you again, Illya Nickovetch. You’re looking well. America suits you.”

Illya said nothing. The man waited, finally went on.

“Did you bring the data?”

Illya replied, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

The tall man smiled, half surprised, Napoleon thought, half amused.

“Very well. We will play no games.”

“What do you want?”

“You. More specifically, the knowledge you have stored away in that rock-hard head of yours.”

That would have told Napoleon, had he not already realized it, that this was someone who knew his partner.

“Particularly that data you’ve acquired most recently,” the man went on. “Our country needs it.”

“Our country? Since when was your master back with the KGB?”

The tall man smiled again, a thin, almost pained look. “Not for a long time. But we still serve the Motherland in our way.”

“How sweet. Why are you bothering me? I don’t owe you or Malikov anything.”

The vodka came. The tall man sipped his, said, “Then why did you come?”

“Because you issued a threat. I simply wanted to respond. To warn you.”

“I am listening.” Another sip of the vodka.

“Try it and I will kill you. And Malikov. You have no hold over me. Remember that.”

The tall man shook his head. “You are mistaken and that shall be shown to you. So you won’t come quietly?”

Disgusted, Illya said, “You’ve been watching too many American movies.”

The tall man downed the drink. “I think, comrade, so have you. Until we meet again.”

He set down the empty glass and strolled out of the bar.

Illya sat glaring into space for a moment, then, in a show of anger so surprising it made Napoleon, 20 feet away, jump, he slapped his own untouched glass of vodka across the bar and onto the floor, where it shattered, glass shards skipping across the wood. The noise of the bar vanished for about two seconds; when the rest of the patrons resumed their conversations, Illya handed the bartender a few crumpled bills – for the glass, presumably – and stalked out of the bar.

Napoleon waited fifteen minutes, then went home.

~*~*~

Once there, he stood at his windows overlooking Manhattan, sipping a glass of his own infinitely superior scotch and thinking. One of the things he kept coming back to was how hard it was to simply, logically _think_ about this problem. A quiet but nagging fear kept prodding him in the back, distracting him.

His doorbell rang and, for the second time that night, he jumped. _Who are you and what have you done with unflappable Napoleon Solo?_

He went to the door, unsurprised to see his partner. Many locks and monitors were deactivated. Illya strode past him the moment the door was opened, into the living room. Napoleon sighed. Worse than he expected. He reactivated everything he’d deactivated, followed his partner, finishing off his scotch and suspecting he’d be in need of another one soon.

Illya faced him, radiating cold anger. “Why did you follow me?”

Napoleon hesitated, trying to read his partner’s anger, but at the moment he couldn’t get past it to see what it was made up of. He’d known Illya would spot him, of course, just as he would have spotted Illya had their positions been reversed. Aside from being excellent agents they had a sixth, or possibly seventh, sense regarding one another.

“I didn’t follow you,” he said, a preliminary thrust of humor aimed at disarming Illya’s anger. “I was there first.”

“You know what I mean, damn it.”

Napoleon set down the glass. Okay; no easy way out. “Two reasons. Reason one: You said you had a problem–”

“I said a _personal_ problem,” Illya snapped.

“That’s reason number two.”

“Did Mr. Waverly send you?”

“Yes.”

Cursing in Russian Illya spun away, stalked growling to the window.

Napoleon followed, stood a gingerly distance from his partner. That had two benefits: it kept him out of reach and suggested to Illya that he was fearful of actually being struck, which generally had a mollifying effect.

“Can you listen?” he asked gently. The blue eyes closed briefly and Illya took a slow breath.

“Yes, Mr. Waverly sent me. Or rather, he suggested I send someone to follow you. That can’t surprise you, when you told him about the meeting yourself.” He paused, let that sink in. “The reason I came myself is ... well, firstly, I was concerned about you. Secondly, I knew if it was something ... something others shouldn’t know, there was no one else I could count on to keep it quiet.”

Illya glanced at him, the glacial anger in his eyes gone. “That’s the same reason.”

Napoleon smiled. “I guess so.”

Another exhalation, more a sigh, and Illya relaxed. “I suppose I should have expected it once I’d told Mr. Waverly.”

“Now, shall we sit down and talk reasonably about this?” Napoleon indicated the sofa. On the table, next to the scotch, sat a bottle of vodka in a bucket brimming with ice. Illya smiled ruefully.

“Well,” Napoleon said modestly. “I figured by the time you got here you’d be regretting that you didn’t have that drink Boris bought you.”

They sat; Napoleon poured the drinks and said, “So who is Boris, and who is Malikov, and what does he want, and what can I do?”

Illya, raising the glass to his lips, paused. “You heard us?”

“Bug.”

Illya’s eyes narrowed. “Where? Not on me.”

Napoleon chuckled. “No, not even I could get a listening device on you without you knowing about it. On your tall dark and loathsome friend.”

“What did you do, bug everyone in the bar?”

“No, just the likeliest suspects.”

Illya shook his head again, marveling. “I sometimes forget how good you are, since you’re usually on my side.”

“I’m always on your side,” Napoleon said. “I would have gone with you, you know.”

“I know. I didn’t want you to. If ... if Malikov thinks I have no ... no allies, no friends in this, it makes it easier for me.”

“For us, you mean?” Napoleon said lightly, lifting his glass.

Illya rolled his eyes, muttered, “Interfering American.” But his tone was warm again, and Napoleon knew he was forgiven.

“Who is Malikov?” he asked. “You said he isn’t KGB.”

“No. He was. I knew Andrei Malikov when we both were recruited into the KGB. Boris Golkov was his toady even then. I know Malikov was ejected from the service some time ago. I have no idea what he’s been up to, but I imagine it can’t have been anything beneficial to mankind.” He gave his partner a tiny, sardonic smile. “I had not heard from or thought about them until three nights ago at the soiree.”

“It was Malikov on the balcony?” Napoleon said. “Or Boris?”

“It was Boris. I suppose he saw me with Dr. Holberg as he was taking aim. Obviously Malikov wants the will gas, and thought he would acquire it through me. Hence the note.”

“The note,” Napoleon echoed. It made sense; any government or faction would give its executive branch to have an effective, nonfatal, cheaply manufactured will gas. “The ... invitation.”

“It was more of a ... threat. It seemed easier to find out what they wanted, perhaps find some way of settling it, than to ignore it. Mr. Waverly agreed.”

“A threat?” Napoleon scowled. He knew Illya had no family, not even in Russia.  At least, he _thought_ he knew that. No wife, no children – who could this Malikov possibly have threatened that Illya would cooperate even to this extent?

“I thought if they wanted information,” Illya went on, “I could provide them with something false, reveal them to the CIA or the FBI, or even the KGB, and eliminate the problem. I didn’t realize they wanted me.”

“Well, they can’t have you,” Napoleon quipped. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Illya glanced at him sidelong, smiled faintly. “ I think it might be a good idea for me to go along with it–”

“What?”

“–in order to eliminate Malikov and his threat. The KGB are bound to consider him a rogue and an enemy, but he’s always hated the West too. Somehow he’s found out about Substance XX and wants to use it.”

“Against us, or against his own people?” Napoleon asked.

Illya shrugged. “Either, both – I don’t know. His chief interest has always been his own power.”

“So you’re thinking of turning yourself over to him?” Napoleon said. “And telling him what?”

“I don’t know. Lies. Something that will flush him out so either the KGB or the American authorities can eliminate him.”

“And if he kills you after you talk?”

Illya had no answer at first. After a moment he said, “Malikov and I have had differences of opinion in the past. He would probably not kill me right away.”

Chilled, Napoleon shook his head. “ _Jesus_ , Illya.”

“Well, I haven’t had time to formulate a solid plan,” Illya said defensively. “I had intended to spend tonight considering that. Then I saw you in the bar.”

“And you decided to come over here and upbraid me–”

“Deservedly–”

“For doing _exactly_ what you would have done in my place,” Napoleon finished, stern.

Silence and scowls. Napoleon cupped a hand to his ear, brows raised.

“You were saying, my secretive Russian friend?”

Illya glanced at him, pained. “There is no reason for you to be involved in this.”

“Wrong,” Napoleon said. “If I have to spell out the reasons  ... well, then one of us hasn’t been paying attention for the past five years.”

Illya sighed. “That’s not what I meant.” He knew if he started this he wouldn’t be able to get out of it. He shouldn’t have come, he should have gone straight to Waverly and explained. He’d probably already be on his way to Malikov right now, alone. Safe.

That stopped him.

 _Safe_. Safe not because _he_ was safe, but because _Napoleon_ was.

He downed the rest of the vodka, told himself to just get up and go.

“Then what did you mean?” Napoleon asked.

Illya closed his eyes, sank back into the seat. “Napoleon–” _Don’t be so damned ... caring_. “I can deal with this on my own.”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute.”

With all the coldness he could muster –  which was formidable – Illya looked him right in the eyes and said, “Has it occurred to you that I do not want your interference?”

But that ice hit Napoleon’s concern and melted in an instant. He’d long known how to get around all the devices Illya used to keep people at a distance.

“It occurred to me,” Napoleon said. “That’s beside the point.”

“Which is?”

“That I could no more watch you dodge bullets – however ably – and _not_ interfere than I could shoot you myself.”

Illya said nothing. In mild chastisement, Napoleon added:

“I shouldn’t have to say that.”

Illya smiled grudgingly. “It was a good image.”  He rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I’m not up to plotting just now. It’s been a long few days.” He waited, almost ready to blurt out the truth, but Napoleon said nothing about his avoidance of the last three days. The moment of courage – or recklessness – passed. “I think I’d better just go home.”

Napoleon got up along with him, walking him to the door. “We can talk to Mr. Waverly about this cockamamie scheme of yours in the morning.”

Illya scowled but said nothing.

At the door Napoleon tried again. “Illya?”

His partner paused, but didn’t turn to look at him.

“Is there a reason you didn’t simply ignore them?”

Illya chuckled silently, sourly. “Yes.”

“Would you care to share it? You said they threatened someone.”

“ _Da_.” He turned around, resigned, it seemed, to the conversation not being over.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Napoleon said delicately. “It was my understanding you left no one close to you behind in Russia...”

Illya’s smile seemed pained. “I have no loved ones in Russia. My relatives are long dead, and friendship was not permitted.”

“Then...I don’t understand what kind of hold Malikov could have over you.”

Illya looked long at his partner, wondering as he often had how he had let things get to this inexcusable state. The usual way, maybe. One day, one mission, one heartbeat at a time.

 _No, you don’t understand. And I’m going to do everything I can to keep it that way_.

He turned the doorknob and the world exploded.

~*~*~

Napoleon woke up to a throbbing headache; in fact, his whole body was throbbing. After blinking and thinking for a moment he realized at least part of the throbbing was the vibration of the plane he was on, strapped into an insufficiently padded seat.  It was a small plane that had seen much rough use; his section, with hatches at both ends, held about 12 battered seats and him. In an aisle seat, he could see only clouds out the small windows. He examined the straps that held him down at ankles, thighs, wrists and chest; nylon, of the sort they made seatbelts from, but without any visible latches, and tight enough that he couldn’t slip out of them.

The hatch at the front of the cabin opened to admit the tall blackhaired man Napoleon had first seen in the White Dog, Boris Golkov, and a shorter, stouter man with close-cropped brown hair and pudgy, hard eyes. He approached, arms crossed before him, smiling an oily smile. Golkov stayed by the door, a trained guard dog.

“I’m very pleased to meet you at last, Mr. Solo.”

“The pleasure’s all yours, Mr...”

“Malikov. Andrei Sergeivitch Malikov.” He smiled, showing small yellowed teeth. “And you are right; the pleasure is mine. Your partner is in the forward cabin.” He nodded that way. “Each of you is insurance that the other will cooperate.”

Napoleon said, “I don’t believe you, and I have no intention of cooperating.”

Malikov blinked. “Well, in your position you’re as cooperative as we need you to be for now. Once we reach our destination, Illya Nickovetch’s cooperation will be taken out of your hide.”

“You have a way with words,” Napoleon said.

“And other things, as you’ll find, if your partner doesn’t elect to be helpful.” Malikov glanced toward the front cabin as the door opened and a muscular, redheaded, sallow-faced man came out. He and Boris spoke, in Russian,  but Napoleon understood them to be discussing the fact that Illya had insisted on seeing him before he would cooperate.

“Bring him!” Malikov barked. Both men started and went forward, returning a few minutes later with a rather beat-up Illya Kuryakin, hands bound behind his back, looking very small between his escorts. His eyes sought and found Napoleon; the minuscule slump of the Russian’s shoulders was the only outward signal of his disappointment that Napoleon had been captured.

“Nice of you to come visit tourist class,” Napoleon said heartily.

Deadpan, Illya replied, “I tried to get you bumped up, but it’s pretty crowded up there, what with the cabaret and the champagne cart.”

Boris nodded at his muscular sidekick, who shoved Illya into a seat across the aisle from Napoleon.

“Relax,” Malikov said. “We have about an hour before we land.” He beckoned his henchmen; the three men went forward again with a disheartening lack of concern about the chances of their prisoners getting loose.

“I’m sorry, Napoleon,” Illya began, his tone heartfelt. “I ... I had no idea they would do this.”

“What? Kidnap you? Or bring me along?”

Illya’s eyes roved the inside of the plane. “I think they’re taking us to a secret installation just inside the Russian border. I heard the pilots talking before they realized I was awake.”

“What exactly do they want?”

“From me? The formula for Substance XX. It turns out Malikov was the reason Dr. Holberg wanted UNCLE’s protection. I think Dr. Holberg was cooperating with him at first but had a change of heart.”

Illya’s eyes at last came to rest on his partner. “As for what they want from you...”

“Yes,” Napoleon said drily, “Malikov already indicated they planned to use me as an argument.” To forestall the apology he could see in his partner’s eyes he added, “Serves me right for sticking my big fat American nose into this.”

Illya sighed, bent double and quickly managed to work his manacled hands from behind him to in front of him. Napoleon watched, impressed as always with his partner’s ingenuity and flexibility.

“Some day you’ll have to teach me that trick,” he said as Illya sat back in the seat again, working his shoulders. Illya looked at him.

“If we survive this I’ll be happy to teach you all my tricks. But you’ll need to get a lot more flexible ...”

“I’m sure you’ll be an excellent teacher,” Napoleon said, his expression 99 and 44/100 percent pure. “Of both tricks and flexibility.”

Illya actually blushed as he realized the double meaning of his own words. And, maybe, of the single meaning behind Napoleon’s.

Napoleon took pity on him and said, “Any idea where we’ll be landing?”

“I heard them mention Chop. That’s a town in Ukraine, not far from the Hungarian border. It’s mostly flat farmland there, not very populated. A good place for a secret landing site.”

Napoleon considered. It made sense that the landing site wouldn’t be in Russia; Russian airspace was well monitored and the comings and goings of Malikov’s plane would no doubt be noticed. The Russians monitored Hungarian airspace, too, of course, but there was nothing they could do about a small plane landing on a private airstrip across the border.

Illya gave him a sardonic look. “Any ideas?”

“This is your problem, remember? Not mine.”

“Oh, _now_ you’ve decided to mind your own business?” Illya got up and moved to a window, peering out. “Overcast. Boris said something about a base. My guess is they have some site in the country. How he hopes to manufacture, let alone distribute, this Substance XX, I can’t imagine.” He turned from the window, crossed the aisle and laid hold of the strap at Napoleon’s chest. “I find it hard to believe Malikov’s suddenly acquired an army.”

“He doesn’t have the cash?” Napoleon tried to sit still as Illya worked at the straps.

“He doesn’t have the charisma. He was semi-worthless in the KGB, always coming up with grand, impossible schemes. How he’s managed to come up with this much of an organization on his own ...” Illya trailed off, stopped. Napoleon, watching his partner’s face, said, “Are you thinking he didn’t manage this on his own?”

Illya shook his head. “Malikov is cruel and ambitious, but he’s not very intelligent. All this – a plane, a private airstrip, apparently some sort of secret installation and the money and manpower to run it – it just isn’t likely he’s done this on his own.”

Napoleon said softly, “Will we meet Malikov’s puppetmaster once we land? Perhaps a puppetmaster with feathers?”

Illya shrugged, resumed work on the straps. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

After an uncomfortable few minutes Illya stopped. “There. It’s still fastened, but one sharp pull should get you loose.”

“I’ll save it for when we’re on the ground again,” Napoleon said. “Although I’m wondering about the wisdom of attempting to make a break for it until we know exactly where their base is.”

“On the other hand, UNCLE doesn’t know where we are, or even that we’ve been taken,” Illya said practically. “We’re on our own.”

Napoleon shook his head. “You and your past.”

“I’m sorry,” Illya said, low.

“I was kidding,” Napoleon said. “It’s not as if I don’t have a passel of enemies of my own.”

Illya sat on the arm of the aisle seat across from Napoleon. “But this didn’t involve you. That is, it shouldn’t have. You should be safe in New York.”

Napoleon gazed levelly at his partner. “If I were kidnapped and on a plane bound for Russia, would you want to be safe in New York?”

“Yes,” Illya snapped. He got up and paced the cabin. “I’d stay in New York and get a new partner. Someone who doesn’t stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong, someone I don’t ... someone who won’t constantly drive me up the wall.” With his hands clenched in front of him as he paced, he looked like he was searching for someone to strangle. Then he stopped, glaring at Napoleon. “Good riddance, that’s what I’d think.”

 If not for the fact that he needed to appear tied up until they had a shot for freedom, Napoleon would have dispensed with the bonds and taken his agitated partner in his arms right then and there, Malikov and his goons be damned.

A tiny voice pushed him, saying _you might never get another chance_. But he didn’t believe that. It wasn’t in Napoleon’s nature to give up. On anything.

Gently, he said, “If things go badly amongst your old compatriots, you might get your wish.”

Illya turned away with a muttered curse – in French, which was a good sign; he resorted to his native tongue for invective only when genuinely angry – and resumed pacing.

~*~*~

The plane rattled to a stop on what Napoleon would have sworn was a gravel pit. Illya, in a window seat, said:

“Farmland. Dirt runway flanked by fields, then trees. Maybe 30 yards. We might be able to make it to cover.” He looked at Napoleon. The odds didn’t need stating. Illya darted to the other side of the plane. “More of the same. No. Here comes a truck. One man in it.”

“Oh, good, our ride has arrived,” Napoleon said. The door opened and Malikov and his goons came into the cabin, rifles slung.

Malikov hesitated to see Illya had rearranged his own bindings, then waved his men forward.

Boris approached Napoleon; Sergei advanced on Illya.

Napoleon glanced at Illya. The Russian sat outwardly calm, watching him. Napoleon waited until Boris was bent over him, prepared to work on the straps, then surged upward with all his strength. The bonds snapped free and he barreled into Boris. Malikov shouted something as Boris flew backward into him; Napoleon shoved them against the bulkhead and glanced back.

Illya struck Sergei sharply on the back of the head with both hands and the man fell as Illya rose. Satisfied his partner was behind him, Napoleon darted through the door.

The forward cabin was empty, the door to the cockpit closed. Napoleon went to the exit and stood to one side of the open door, peering out.

Illya bumped up against his back. “What are you waiting for?” he hissed. “A welcoming committee?”

“I forgot my passport,” Napoleon said as he scanned the runway. Seeing no one, he flung himself down the steps and onto the hard dirt. The truck was parked on the other side of the plane; the driver was getting out. Napoleon ran for the cover of the distant trees, his partner behind him, hearing the shouts from inside the plane as Malikov and his men came after them.

~*~*~

Illya ran some ten feet behind Napoleon; when the first rifle shot cracked the air both men started to zigzag. Napoleon was nearly in the trees when Illya, zagging when he ought to have zigged, stumbled over a clod of earth and went down, hard.

He caught himself quickly and pushed up from the damp earth, but before he could get his feet back under him someone landed on his back, slamming him to the ground again.

He heard two more rifle shots and a shout he couldn’t make out. Then his arms were seized and he was hauled upright and shoved back toward the plane. A voice cursing in his ear told him Sergei had captured him. He twisted in Sergei’s grasp, trying to see whether Napoleon had made it to the shelter of the woods, but Sergei jerked him around and kept him moving toward the plane and the truck, where Malikov stood waiting.

“Where is Boris?” Malikov barked.

Sergei nodded toward the woods.

The three waited and watched. Sergei held Illya by both arms, fingers digging cruelly into the flesh. Illya started at a lone rifle shot, then stilled himself, iron will clamped down on shrieking nerves as he scanned the distant trees and bushes for any sign of Napoleon.

Boris came trudging toward them across the damp field. Behind him another man followed, a large limp bundle humped over his shoulder. Illya’s gaze touched the man-sized, cloaked shape and darted away, fixing coldly on Boris as he spoke quietly to Malikov, slightly out of breath after his chase over the fields.

“We’ve got him,” Boris said. The other man waited, breathing hard.

“Put him in back,” Malikov said, turning to Illya. “Well, that’s put a bit of a crimp in our original plan.” He watched the two men open the back doors to load the bundle into the truck. Then he returned his gaze to Illya as Boris shouldered his Kalashnikov.

“It was not my desire to have Boris kill your friend,” he said, cold, matter-of-fact. Illya’s heart froze.  “But I could not allow him to escape. We shall have to find some other means of ensuring your cooperation.”

Compelled, Illya glanced toward the bundle. It was clearly a body, but wrapped completely, so that he couldn’t tell if it was Napoleon. Who else it might be, in an area this unpopulated, he couldn’t guess...

“Let me see,” Illya croaked out. Ignoring him, Malikov got into the truck, behind the wheel.

The back doors slammed as Boris and the other man finished their grisly lading. Sergei hefted Illya and put him bodily into the cab, then got in beside him, pistol in hand, while Boris went around to the driver’s side.

~*~*~

Napoleon grasped the rough bark of a tree with his good hand and swung around the trunk as another shot whinged past. Pressed against the bark he waited, catching his breath, listening with every pore. He heard nothing – a good sign in that it indicated he might have eluded his pursuers, but a bad sign because it also meant he and Illya had gotten separated.

Napoleon peered around the tree trunk, seeing only bushes, trees and grass.

_Come on, Illya, come on ..._

His shoulder burned – he touched his palm to the tear in his sleeve and it came away warm and wet. Glancing down he saw blood trailing down his sleeve, but as he could use his arm, despite the pain, it had to be only a graze. Slowly he slipped around the tree, silent, moving like a hunting cat back toward the airfield.

Back he crept, down the grassy, tree-studded slope, over the little creek and back up the other side. After sidling through the underbrush for a few minutes he heard a distant shout and ducked automatically. Silence followed. He pressed forward cautiously until his head poked out between two bushes and he could see the airstrip across the broad grassy field.

A truck sat beside the still-running plane. Napoleon could make out several figures by the truck, including one with an unfortunately unmistakable mop of blond hair. He groaned as his partner was loaded into the truck. It drove away, east, and the plane lumbered down the runway, accelerated and took off in the opposite direction.

Napoleon thought fast. Malikov wasn’t going to kill Illya immediately. That gave Napoleon some time to acquire reinforcements. Although it went against all his instincts to head in the opposite direction from his partner, he knew he needed help. His knowledge of this region was sparse, but if he remembered correctly, there was a line running out of Ukraine and, meanderingly, to Budapesth. If he could get some transportation – a train, a boat, an ox cart – to UNCLE Budapesth, he could get some help.

 _Maybe even a bandaid_ , he thought; his arm throbbed more insistently with every passing minute.

An hour later he was riding in a battered flatbed truck with an elderly, weatherbeaten man possessed of eight teeth and seven words of English – Napoleon had no trouble counting either, because the old fellow talked almost nonstop throughout the drive – and was more than happy to drop the American off at the train station in Nyiregyhaza. From there Napoleon learned it was another 6-odd hours to Budapesth and that the stationmaster was reasonably amenable to taking twice the ticket’s worth in American money.

The train rattled west; Napoleon sat clenched in a rock-hard ball of worry and stared with dry, burning eyes out the window at the endless countryside.

~*~*~

Malikov’s “installation” was unimpressive – a handful of elderly wooden structures surrounded by a cyclone fence in the midst of rather sparse woods – but the guards were sufficiently numerous, alert, and armed. The truck pulled in through the gate and stopped in front of a large building.

Sergei and Boris hefted Illya out of the truck as Malikov gave orders for the body to be disposed of.

Desperate to know the truth, Illya wrenched himself free of Sergei’s grip and lunged toward the men unloading the body, but a rifle butt against his shoulders drove him into the dirt, stunned. He was hauled to his feet and carried up the steps and into the building, never getting another look at the body, nor seeing where it was taken.

Inside he was ushered into a bare, windowless room. A tall, pale man in a lab coat sat behind a battered desk. Malikov, arms locked behind him, took up a standing position at the man’s left side. Illya rested his gaze on the man in the lab coat, but it was Malikov who spoke.

“This is Illya Kuryakin, doctor,” he said.

“I thought Mr. Solo would be accompanying his partner,” the man in the lab coat said, his smooth questioning tone not disguising who was actually in charge.

“We brought him,” Malikov said crisply. “He attempted to escape. Boris was forced to shoot him.”

The man in the lab coat turned to look at Malikov, reprimand clear in his expression,  even in profile.

Malikov said hastily, “No matter. Illya Nickovetch will cooperate, one way or the other. Is it not so, comrade?”

Illya said nothing. Sergei shook him, then backhanded him from behind, his knuckles cracking across Illya’s jaw.

“Yes,” Malikov said. “You will tell us the formula for Dr. Holberg’s will gas, Illyusha. Either you will speak now, or ...” He glanced at the lab-coated man. “Well, it will be harder to understand you with a broken jaw and shattered teeth, but we will do what we must.”

Illya met his eyes, cold, unafraid. Malikov had no way of knowing that there was no persuasion that could work on him if Napoleon Solo was dead.

The man in the lab coat said, distastefully, “I think you have your work cut out for you, comrade.”

“He’ll talk,” Malikov said quickly.

The man shrugged. “I hope so, for your sake. I’ll leave him to you, then, Comrade Malikov. You know where to find me if and when you acquire the information we need.”

“Indeed yes.” Malikov watched the man stride from the room, then returned his stare to Illya, who was thinking the man in the lab coat was THRUSH.

“I’m sorry your partner is dead,” Malikov said. “He was an interesting man. Most impressive record.”

“He was running away,” Boris sneered. “Leaving his ‘partner’ to his enemies.” He snorted, derisive, and Illya struck like lighting, backhanding Boris to the floor before Sergei could catch him. The big redhead grappled him to his knees, but he had the satisfaction of seeing the surprise on Malikov’s face and the blood on Boris’.

As Boris scrambled to his feet, touching his lip, Malikov said:

“There’s no need for melodrama, Illya Nickovetch. Tell me the formula for Substance XX. Or we shall ... persuade you to do so.”

Illya said nothing. His only goal now was to take Malikov and his base down before he was taken down. Malikov raised his eyes to Sergei, nodding.

The persuasion began.

~*~*~

UNCLE Budapesth was entered via a small storefront office in one of the oldest neighborhoods of the city, near the Danube dividing the old cities of Buda and Pesth. The office was small, a handful of agents and clerks. One of the latter was astonished to see at her desk a rather disheveled, bloodied man she recognized from an action a year before as the number one enforcement agent for the organization.

“Mr. Solo!”

“I need to see Armand,” Napoleon said without preamble, naming the acting chief of the Budapesth office. “Right now.”

Fifteen minutes later, he sat with Armand Florescu, a bandage on his arm, a cup of coffee beside him and a map spread on the table before him.

“We don’t have the kind of manpower you need,” Armand said. “We have three agents, Napoleon, and two of them are on assignment. I want to help you, but don’t you think you’d better get your reinforcements from Mr. Waverly?”

Napoleon scanned the map. “No time. I think I might have a better idea, anyway.”

Armand, having had some experience with Napoleon Solo’s plans, rolled his eyes. “You’d better tell me.”

~*~*~

Anatoliy Karchoff was astonished when his secretary told him he had a call coming in from the Budapesth office of the United Network Command For Law and Enforcement. It wasn’t that the KGB didn’t have contact with UNCLE; it was simply unusual for an officer of his level to be contacted directly by an agency that was usually, to put it politely, at odds with the philosophiam vitae of the Soviet Union.

“This is Karchoff.”

‘This is Napoleon Solo with the UNCLE.”

“What can I do for the UNCLE?” Karchoff asked warily.

“On the contrary, Mr. Karchoff, there’s something I’d like to do for you.”

“Really.” The one word expressed worlds of skepticism.

“Well, for both of us, then.” Napoleon explained the situation with Malikov and his secret base. “His intentions are ... deleterious to both yourselves and us. We thought you might prefer to deal with them yourselves rather than ...”

“Yes, yes...” Karchoff considered. He had the authority – barely – for a small-scale strike against such an installation as the UNCLE man described. He knew something of Malikov – stupid and ambitious – and it was KGB policy to keep UNCLE out of the Soviet Union whenever possible.

“How long might it take you to put together such a team?” Napoleon asked.

Karchoff said. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I have a friend in the vicinity whom I would like to get out of the vicinity before you begin your cleanup operation.”

Karchoff considered that. “A captive of Malikov?”

“An unwilling guest, let’s say,” Napoleon said. “If you could allow me a window of a few hours it would be much appreciated.”

“We have no interest in your ... friend,” Karchoff said. “We can allow you a few hours. It would take that long to assemble the force in any case.”

Karchoff hung up and immediately told his secretary to call Moscow.

~*~*~

After it became clear that Illya was not going to talk “easily,” Sergei rested his battered knuckles while Boris tossed the Russian into a small cell across the compound from the main building. Illya hit the bare cold floor and stayed there, for a length of time he had no way of measuring. Then he worked himself into a seated position, leaning his bruised back gingerly against the wall and stretching his cramped and aching legs out in front of him.

The cell had no windows, not even a hole in the door. Illya crawled over to a small ventilation grate in the floor, but his remaining strength didn’t budge it.

From the one eye he could see out of, as he’d been half-carried across the compound, he’d noticed barrels of petrol stacked next to a couple of trucks. If he could get to that, perhaps when they came back for him, it would only take him a moment to rig up a decent explosion and fire. The presence of the THRUSH man in the lab coat also suggested some sort of laboratory, which would proffer materials for mayhem; perhaps if he “broke” and suggested he’d show the man how to manufacture the gas ... they weren’t likely to trust him much, but it might be worth a try.

He leaned his throbbing head against the wall, lightly fingering his puffy face. Nothing broken, yet; they were apparently anticipating a lengthy period of persuasion and Sergei was being careful to avoid too much damage at first. But he definitely hurt. All over. And the worst hurt was inside, deeper than Sergei could ever reach with fist or knife or brand.

 _Don’t. Until you_ know _he’s dead – until you see a body – he’s alive._

Illya crawled into a corner and tried to relax his battered body until they came back for him. He suspected they’d wait long enough for the worst of the sharp pains to fade – long enough for him to fear fresh pain – before they returned, and so they did.

His struggles as they crossed the compound again were futile against the strength of Boris and Sergei. He went limp as they carried him up the stairs, composing himself to endurance, and again said nothing in response to Malikov’s now somewhat anxious questions, though he filed away the idea that THRUSH was getting impatient.

He was unconscious when they carried him back to his cell the second time.

~*~*~

Two guards met on their rounds and stopped to talk, one gazing out into the dark, quiet countryside around the compound, the other staring idly at the cluster of wooden buildings.

“I’m bored,” one muttered to the other.

The other hunched his rifle up on his shoulder. “Not as bored as I am.”

The first guard dug in his jacket pocket for a battered pack of cigarettes. “I’ll bet I’m more bored than you.”

“You’re more boring than I am. Shut up and give me a smoke.” The second guard reached out and took a cigarette and a match.

“Did you see the guy they brought in?” the first guard asked, lighting his own cigarette. His compatriot shrugged.

“Now we’re taking prisoners,” he said. “You’d think there was a war on.”

“Not much of a war, one little guy locked up in the storeroom.” The second guard took a deep drag on his cigarette.

“Maybe we’ve won, then,” the first guard said sarcastically. His colleague snorted a laugh.

“Better get moving.”

They nodded to one another and continued their rounds.

~*~*~

Napoleon, crouched behind a bush outside the fence, waited until the guards were out of sight. Then he holstered his gun and picked up the wire cutters.

He slipped through the hole and darted across the compound to the garages, where three heavy trucks were parked, alongside a supply of gasoline. He wondered that the guards had spoken Russian, not Ukrainian. Possibly Malikov didn’t trust the natives; that might even explain some part of his animosity toward Illya.

Crouching between the wall and one of the trucks, Napoleon scanned the compound. Besides the garage there was a big building, no doubt main offices and barracks (and, if they planned to manufacture Substance XX here, labs), and a couple of smaller one-storey structures. If Illya were the prisoner the guards mentioned, he was likely to be in one of the smaller buildings, but Napoleon would still need a little time and a medium distraction to enable him to search.

His mind’s eye focused on the guards and their cigarettes. A plausible diversion came to his mind, and he dug into his jacket pocket for a box of matches.

~*~*~

Malikov rubbed one pudgy hand across his damp brow. “He’ll talk.”

“When? After you’ve killed him?” The THRUSH scientist sat in cool ire on the couch. “Face it, Malikov. We gave you the chance you begged for, and you’ve failed. You should have forgotten about your old friend Kuryakin and focused on the formula itself, as we originally agreed. I’m calling Central in the morning.”

“What about Kuryakin?” Malikov asked, though what he wanted to ask was “What about me?”

The scientist shrugged, rose from his seat. “We’ll deliver him to Central. Maybe they can make him talk. We’ll salvage something of this.”

“But ... but my ... my plans ... my proposals ...” Malikov sank back against the edge of his desk, seeing his future crumble to ash. “You need me,” he said without conviction.

The THRUSH smiled, headed for the door, then stopped. Malikov heard a soft explosive sound, as if from a distance. The THRUSH scientist moved to the window.

“What in hell..?”

Malikov heaved himself to his feet and hurried to the window to see flames and smoke billowing from the garage.

“Your damned guards and their cigarettes,” the THRUSH scientist said as the two men moved for the door.

~*~*~

Napoleon blew the lock and entered the room. In the dimness he saw a small shape in the corner. Too small to be Illya, he thought – until it moved, trying and failing to rise.

Napoleon crossed the small cell, kneeling before his partner, fury boiling up in him when he saw the battered and bloodied face. Illya had been the recipient of a fair amount of persuasion in the 24 hours since their separation.

He heard his name whispered, and Illya reached out, shaky. Napoleon seized his arms, not missing his partner’s flinch. He gently pulled the Russian to his feet.

“Holiday’s over. Time to get back to work.”  He put an arm about his partner’s shoulders, feeling him tremble, and moved him toward the door. “The Soviets are about to pay your old pal Malikov a friendly social call, and I do not think we want to be within shrapnel range when that happens.”

At the door Illya stopped, clutching his sleeve. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Boris said ... he’d killed you.”

Napoleon looked at his partner, unable to read his face in the dimness, but feeling his anguish. Unfortunately there was no time to deal with it kindly. “And you fell for it? The oldest trick in the book?”  He squeezed him quickly. “I’m immortal, remember?”

“Oh.” A ghost of humor shadowed his partner’s voice. “I forgot.”

“Now, let’s get the hell out of here before that gets tested.”

He eased Illya out of the storeroom, around the side opposite the fire and the shouting men trying to put it out. They crossed the darkened yard as quickly as Illya’s abused body could manage, and slipped through the hole Napoleon had cut in the fence. Outside they dashed across the road and ducked behind the bushes on the other side. To the west was the long descent to the river.

Both men looked back at the camp. Illya, seeing the flames, glanced at his partner.

Napoleon shrugged, pushing the ever-errant forelock off his face. “I needed a little distraction of my own before your former colleagues in the KGB get here with their big distraction.”

“You reported Malikov to the KGB?” Illya asked softly. In the distant flicker of firelight his swollen, bloodstreaked face looked alarming.

“I considered it my patriotic duty,” Napoleon said, as a convoy of trucks came rumbling along the road.

“I think the party’s arrived,” Napoleon added.

The trucks stopped, lining the fence, and men with rifles poured out. Somehow those inside were ready; machine gun fire hammered the night air, peppered with shouts and cries as the new arrivals ducked for cover.

A distinctive hollow boom made the agents exchange a look, their eyes saying “rocket-launcher?”

Illya grabbed Napoleon and flung them both down the hill as a truck exploded into flames not 10 feet from their position. They rolled across the bumpy, tussocky grass, coming to a stop against a wooden fence with Illya on top of Napoleon. Nose to nose, they regarded one another for a moment.

“Hi there,” Napoleon said.

“Hello,” Illya responded, not smiling.

Both of them turned to look back at the compound. The lights gave a weird backlit halo to the men running to and fro. It was impossible to tell what was actually happening, who was winning, but one thing was certain – they were too close to it for comfort.

A bullet splatted into a fencepost nearby and Napoleon wrapped his arms around his partner, pushing off with one foot against the grass. They rolled under the wooden fence and into the grassy drainage ditch. There, hidden in the long damp grass, Napoleon stopped, still on top of his partner.

“Napoleon...” Illya’s voice sounded rather strained.

“Sorry,” Napoleon whispered, placing his knees and elbows on the ground to lift his weight from his partner. “Don’t move. Be quiet.” He scanned the edge of the ditch, hearing gunfire, explosions, shouts, seemingly far away.

“Napoleon...” The protest held a touch of wonder. Napoleon looked down at his partner. Illya’s hands were planted on his chest, not pushing, just there. “What are you doing?”

“I’m wearing black,” he said reasonably. “You aren’t. For once. Don’t move and _be quiet_.”

“Oh.”

The sounds of battle wavered, nearer, farther, then faded. Still they waited, and after a while came the sound they’d dreaded – booted feet, approaching. Someone was searching, possibly for them. Either the KGB had won and was looking for escaped men, or – unlikely but possible – Malikov had won and had found out he was missing one very important prisoner.

Some men stopped at the top, on the other side of the fence, talking fast, too fast for Napoleon’s rudimentary Russian skills. He craned his neck but saw only booted feet; no way to tell which “side” they were on. _Neither side is ours,_ he reminded himself.

“What are they saying?” Napoleon whispered into Illya’s ear, and the translation poured into his own ear in the same whisper.

“Just keep looking – what the hell are we looking for – there’s an American agent, they want him – an American agent here? – they said he escaped, he’s a defector, they want him alive – An American defector? – No, Russian, you ass – come on –” Illya halted his translation as the two men moved away.

Napoleon cursed. “That bastard Karchoff said he didn’t care about you, that he’d let you go. Lying son of a bitch.”

He felt Illya chuckle weakly. “And you fell for it? The oldest trick in the book?”

Napoleon rolled over into a crouch, peering under the fence. “Come on. Now’s the time to get the hell out of here for real.”  He pulled his partner to his feet. “UNCLE is tracking me, but we’re going to have to get to the border for them to effect a rescue.” He consulted his compass. “That way – can you walk? – about 10 miles.”

They stayed clear of the roads, keeping under brush or among trees as much as possible, even though the area was mostly empty fields with the occasional derelict-looking farm. They spoke rarely, but Napoleon quickly realized Illya hadn’t the energy to spare for more than walking. He stayed close, monitoring both distance covered and the condition of his friend. When they reached the cover of a thick copse of trees he said, “Enough.”

Back to an alder, Illya slid bonelessly to the ground, head resting on his knees.

Napoleon slid off his small pack, unwrapped his jacket and slid it around Illya, pulling it close in front, feeling Illya trembling, his lungs still laboring after their hike. His partner didn’t even glance up.

“They weren’t exactly easy on you, were they?” he asked.

“Did you expect them to be?” came the sour response.

“When was the last time you slept?”

That made Illya raise his head. Pointedly he answered, “Nineteen fifty eight.”

Napoleon conceded that issue. “Fair enough.” He poured some water onto a bandana and gently cleansed his partner’s face. With the blood gone it didn’t look quite so bad; the eyes were undamaged – one had merely been clotted shut – and the cuts and bruises looked as if they’d heal well.

“Try to sleep; we’re going to need light to find the rendezvous site.” He leaned his own back against a tree, drawing his gun. The night was quiet, chilly but not really cold; he sat in the silence and watched his partner shiver for about 10 minutes before he couldn’t stand it any more. He leaned over and pulled him bodily against his chest, ignoring Illya’s weak, if acid, protests.

“Shut up. You’re cold. I’m not. You’re the scientist, you figure it out.”

He felt a soft chuckle against his chest as he adjusted the jacket to cover his partner, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around him, gun still in his hand. He settled again against his tree, resigned to a few hours’ discomfort – happy to suffer it in return for having Illya alive and safe.

 _We’re neither of us safe yet_ , he reminded himself. But as Illya’s shivering ceased and his tensed form relaxed against Napoleon, he found himself surprisingly at peace.

Napoleon awoke abruptly at dawn, chilled, stiff, his arms full of ... his partner. He glanced down at the blond head, dark circles under the closed eyes. Illya had wrapped his own arms around Napoleon sometime in the night and his head rested on Napoleon’s chest.

Napoleon felt his throat tighten at the realization that this man who trusted no one, whose life had beaten the trust out of him at a tender age, could trust him so wholly. He felt suddenly unworthy. Their partnership – Illya – was the most important thing in his life.

But if he was going to admit that to himself, he had to admit it had been the case for a long time – and it hadn’t stopped them being the best damn’ team UNCLE had. Pride aside, the reality shown in their record erased any concern that their caring for one another had harmed their effectiveness as agents. Their shifted priorities had, if anything, enhanced their talents.

In wonder, Napoleon gazed down at his peaceful partner, scowling slightly in his sleep. He loved him – of course. Napoleon wasn’t one to deny his own heart, or to live in fear of his own feelings. He knew Illya loved him. They were too close, too much one creature, for him to not know it, despite that Illya would probably not admit it out loud even under direst tortures.

Sometimes, like now, he felt so full of astonishingly tender emotion that he had to ask himself: Am I _in love_ with him?

At this moment he thought it might be possible. He’d let no one into his heart since the death of his wife, except Illya. The sour antisocial Russian had proven surprisingly loveable – a partner, an equal, a wholly trusted friend who’d seen him at his worst and still had total faith in him – the kind of faith that permitted him to sleep like a child in Napoleon’s arms only a few miles from enemies who would gladly kill them both. That utter faith, from a man this capable, melted any armor Napoleon might have built around his heart.

They had everything. Napoleon smiled, shifting slightly against the hard frosty ground. Everything but sex.

That step had always been a stumbling block in Napoleon’s mind. He’d thought of it, of course. An exuberantly sexual creature, Napoleon didn’t deny his nerve endings any more than his heart; he’d been aware for a long time that he, like many, was not immune to his partner’s physical appeal.

The electricity had been there from the start, probably, although the nature of their business had forced aside consideration of luxuries such as emotion or attraction. They had had to become a team before they could become anything else, or they would not have survived. That bond, however, meant there could be no “just sex” between them if they ever chose to pursue that spark; they had a commitment deeper than most marriages already.

And that, perhaps, was the problem. With his reputation – earned, and few knew that better than Illya – his partner might think he simply sought a novel physical sensation. Napoleon thought Illya must know how immeasurably precious he was to him – would that be damaged if he pressed for something more?

Illya wasn’t naive; he was aware of his own attractiveness to both genders, and of Napoleon’s limitless capacity for sexual adventure. Nor was he a prude, but that didn’t mean he would be comfortable with this idea. They’d never discussed the topic. There were a lot of good reasons not to go there – the blackmail potential, prejudice within the workplace and without – and the best reason of all might be that Illya simply didn’t share those feelings. Napoleon could understand that, live with it. Illya had never suggested any such desire in words, although his body language at certain unguarded moments, like the other night, had led Napoleon to think otherwise. But then again, a man might have such desires without the slightest inclination to act upon them.

Napoleon was left still unsure after his speculation. The idea intrigued him, excited him, worried him a bit ... but his biggest worry was that it might somehow harm or disturb Illya if he were to pursue it. No desire, however strong, was worth that risk.

Illya stirred slightly against him and Napoleon found himself grinning again. _Just you give me an opening, though, my friend. I won’t let it pass._

Illya started awake, shoving hard against his partner, hands upraised.

“Hey...” Napoleon dropped his gun and caught Illya’s wrists, an iron grip necessary to save himself from injury until Illya realized who was holding him. “It’s OK. It’s me.”

Illya blinked, staring at Napoleon. Some residual devilry made Napoleon say, “Is this how you usually act after you’ve spent the night in someone’s arms?”

The Russian blushed, relaxed, scowled. “Napoleon.”

“The same.” He retrieved and holstered his gun.

Illya looked around. “I thought...”

“I’m offended you confused my succor with the ministrations of your Soviet friends,” Napoleon said, getting up and pulling his partner to his feet. He had to steady him for a moment. “You’re the least romantic person I’ve ever slept with.”

“Maybe if –” Illya stopped, redder now, and Napoleon, triumphant, suppressed his grin when the Russian shot him a half-suspicious, half-embarrassed look. Having mercy on his battered partner, Napoleon gave up on the innuendo and pushed the joke.

“What, I come all this way to rescue you and you want flowers too?”

Illya looked mortified. “Napoleon, I –”

“Never mind.” Napoleon grasped his partner’s shoulder. “We’re not out of the woods yet, literally or figuratively. Thank me when we’re actually home and dry.”

“I can’t believe Mr. Waverly authorized ...” Illya began; a sidelong look at Napoleon stopped him.

“Well, the old man’s getting pretty soft,” Napoleon said, scanning their surroundings in the misty dawn to orient himself. “This way. We’re close, if I remember correctly. The rendezvous point is just over that rise. “ He indicated the wooded ridge that rose before them. “Can you walk?”

His partner, standing slightly bent to one side, looked up at him, eyes narrow. “The alternative being?”

“Well, I’d hate to have to carry you the whole way,” Napoleon began. Illya snorted and started off out of the copse, heading west.

~*~*~

The paneled truck – Armand Florescu himself at the wheel – was in sight when Illya finally collapsed, midstep, like an unoccupied jumpsuit.

Napoleon caught him, lifting him in his arms.

Armand, watching anxiously, started the truck, then climbed in the back to open the doors. Napoleon lifted Illya into the truck, climbed in himself, and picked up his partner again, setting him down carefully in a seat and unclenching his teeth to shout: “Let’s go.”

The engines immediately revved and the truck’s vibrations increased. Napoleon pulled a blanket over his partner, settling in the adjacent seat.

“How bad is it?” Armand called from the front, over the roar of the poorly tuned engine.

“I don’t know. Drive fast,” Napoleon shouted back, his attention on his partner.

“Damn fool Russian,” he growled, his mind gnawing on every painful step his partner had taken. “Why in hell couldn’t you just say something?”  But he knew better. Illya wouldn’t admit to being in anything less than top form if he’d had a limb severed.

The truck rattled down the hard-packed dirt road. Napoleon laid a hand across his partner’s wrist. “I would have carried you, you stupid...” The words died to a frustrated growl.

The blue eyes opened, unfocused. “Napoleon..?”

“I’m here.” _Always_.

“What happened? Where are we?”

“You passed out. We’re in a WWI-era truck bound for UNCLE Budapesth and the infirmary therein.”

Predictably Illya began to protest. Napoleon laid his hand over his partner’s mouth, no more gently than necessary. Fighting a smile at how large Illya’s eyes got, he said sternly:

“I don’t want to hear it. You’re ice cold and your heartbeat is irregular and you passed out right in front of me. I might’ve tripped over you and skinned my knee. I don’t know what they did to you but I know damn’ well you’re _not_ fine so don’t try to tell me you are.”

Illya said nothing when he let go of his mouth but Napoleon could feel his partner looking at him as he adjusted the blanket, taking his time.

“How much trouble are you going to be in for this?” Illya asked quietly.

Napoleon continued tucking the corners of the blanket around Illya’s body. “Some,” he admitted. “Won’t know how much until I’ve told Mr. Waverly where we’ve been for the past couple of days.”

“Napoleon–”

Napoleon looked at him. “Don’t make me muzzle you again.”

Illya closed his eyes, leaning back. “I rather liked it,” he said, sounding very tired.

Surprised – had the strain of the past week broken down not just _his_ illusions but some of his partner’s reserve? – Napoleon grinned.

“You must be delirious,” he said, laying his palm on Illya’s forehead, which was hot. “Maybe you have some kind of infection.”

“Maybe,” Illya agreed. “I’m very tired, Napoleon. Can we just go home?”

“We’re on our way,” Napoleon said, forebearing to remind Illya whose fault it was that they were here in the first place.

“Not Budapesth. Home.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Illya sighed. Napoleon thought he heard, faintly, the words “Don’t tempt me,” and then his partner was asleep.

~*~*~

Illya slept all the way to the Budapesth office, awoke long enough to thank Armand Florescu and to refuse any medical attention there, then slept all the way to the airport, wearing a hastily borrowed trench coat over his clothes to hide the worst of the damage and divert any possible questions. UNCLE’s clout got them on the quickest flights to New York – through which, again, Illya slept – and after an interminable cab ride they arrived at UNCLE NY.

Napoleon, gritty, exhausted and starving, gently helped his partner out of the taxi, paid the driver, and guided Illya into their sanctum, releasing a breath that felt as if he’d been holding it for a year once the door closed behind them.

“Mr. Waverly is expecting you,” the receptionist told them, not batting an eye at the condition of either agent as she pinned on their badges.

“We’ll be in the infirmary,” Napoleon said.

“But–”

He pulled his barely conscious partner through the door, ignoring her protests.

~*~*~

The intercom in Alexander Waverly’s office beeped.

“Waverly here.”

“It’s me, sir.”

“Mr. Solo?”

“I’m in the infirmary, sir, with Illya. I just wanted to get him here first. I’m on my way up to you.”

“I should hope so.” Mr. Waverly took a deep breath, marshalling patience. “How is Mr. Kuryakin?”

~*~*~

 “Mr. Waverly’s _second_ question was how much did they find out about Substance XX.”  Napoleon grimaced at his partner, a silent acknowledgement of their superior’s quite heartless commitment to duty.

Illya, seated on the examining room table, shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Napoleon echoed gently. “All that abuse for nothing?”

Illya met his eyes. “I thought you were dead.” Napoleon’s heart lurched; his partner lowered his gaze. “There was nothing they could do to me.”

Napoleon reached out. “Illya–”

Doctor Baker bustled into the room, followed by one of the nurses. “You people,” he began in his usual manner. “Always coming in here shot to pieces, tortured, strung up in chains, dropped from helicopters...”

Despite themselves both agents smiled.

“Why don’t you go into a safer line of work? Like human cannonball at the circus?” Dr. Baker moved Napoleon bodily out of the way and leaned over Illya. “What seems to be the trouble? Poison darts? Mysterious gases? Immersion in a mind-altering fluid? Hangnail?” To Napoleon: “You – out. The old man wants a report.”

Napoleon chuckled and backed away. “See you later, tovarish.”

“Don’t leave me!” Illya cried. Napoleon hesitated; belatedly recognizing the amused melodrama in his partner’s voice, he felt safe in waving and making a quick getaway. The last he heard was Dr. Baker saying:

“Lie down. This won’t hurt a bit. It’ll hurt a lot. But you’re used to it.”

~*~*~

 “Yes...yes, I see.” Mr. Waverly pondered his CEA’s verbal report, puffing at his pipe, while Napoleon watched, perfectly prepared to accept whatever punishment his boss deemed necessary. He’d stopped by the locker rooms for a quick shower and change of clothes, and felt almost human, almost ready to face his superior. Few people were ever wholly ready to face Alexander Waverly.

“I have to admit, what amazes me most about you and Mr. Kuryakin is that every time you blatantly disobey regulations and go off on some rogue action of your own, you manage to deflect serious repercussions by destroying an enemy stronghold or thwarting some heinous scheme.”

Napoleon, hardly able to believe what he’d just heard, said, “Well, we _were_ kidnapped, sir.”

“This isn’t praise. It’s wonderment. How do you do it?” Mr. Waverly asked, as if he really wanted to know and expected an answer.

Napoleon shrugged. “We’re ... just ... very good, sir.” He grinned.

Mr. Waverly harrumphed. “Unfortunately I have no hard data with which to contradict that outrageously egotistical assertion. Therefore I’m going to let it go. Again.” His glare told Napoleon very clearly that for some time to come, the slightest slip on his or Illya’s part would not be forgiven easily.

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir. Uh, Mr. Waverly ...”

“Yes?”

“I never found out who they threatened,” Napoleon said, trying to sound casual. “To get Illya’s cooperation, I mean.”

Mr. Waverly’s eyes widened. “Mr. Kuryakin didn’t tell you?”

“No sir.”

Mr. Waverly chuckled slightly, opened the file and slid a battered slip of paper across the desk. On it, in letters cut melodramatically from various newspapers, were the words:

**_Bring XX to the White Dog at 8:30 or Solo dies. Boris._ **

Napoleon read it over, twice, then looked at Mr. Waverly.

“This is it?”

“Apparently your partner has so far forgotten the priorities of this organization as to feel you are not expendable.” Mr. Waverly took the note back, slid it back into the folder, not looking at his top agent.  “Surely you have something useful to do, Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon headed for the infirmary.

 

“He’s gone,” Dr. Baker told him, not even looking up from his clipboard.

“Gone?”

At his tone the doctor glanced up. “He went home. I didn’t think it wise for him to drive, so he said he’d just crawl.”

“He went home?”

“Is there an echo in here?” Dr. Baker muttered.

Illya had just left? Without speaking to him, without waiting for Napoleon to find out he was OK, knowing Napoleon would have preferred to drive him home rather than make him take a cab...something was wrong.

“Is he okay?” he asked lamely.

“Moderately. Bad bruising, cuts and burns, a slight fever. I prescribed three days’ rest. He had a bad headache, too; I had to amputate. So if he starts behaving oddly...”

“What do you mean, if he _starts_ behaving oddly?”

Dr. Baker sighed. “Oddly in a way different from the odd ways in which he usually behaves.” He cocked an eyebrow at Napoleon.

“Thanks. I’ll keep my eye on him.”

“Good. Now if you don’t mind, I also have a report to make to the man upstairs.” Dr. Baker turned away, still scribbling.

 ~*~*~

During the short drive to Illya’s place he realized he was angry. And he realized why. That Illya was willing to simply surrender his freedom and his life to defend him made him furious. Because it could easily happen again.

Napoleon tried to shake that off. That was their life, had been for years. No one knew when their time would come. Fear of that would cripple him, cripple them as a team. He never saw Illya paralyzed, knotted up in rage and fear like this over the chance of losing him.

That image flashed in his mind with the thought that perhaps Illya never let him see those moments.

_No. He simply sees to it that it doesn’t happen. Like you do._

Napoleon calmed himself, loosening his death grip on the wheel. They did their best. No one could do more. If you can’t stand the heat ... far from hating that heat, they thrived on it. They could no more stop this to do something mundane and safe than they could will themselves to stop breathing.

Now he was face to face with that final issue, which had seemed nothing but titillating when he’d half-jokingly considered it earlier. At least, he knew _now_ he’d been half-joking. He knew it because he realized it was going to be confronted for real tonight, and he wasn’t shaking just from anger.

~*~*~

Illya opened the door, clearly surprised. “Na–”

Napoleon strode into the apartment, took in its familiar utilitarian furnishings, turned around. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

Illya stared at him, at a loss, taking a few hesitant steps farther into the living room. He wore only pajama bottoms; the shirt was in his hand, forgotten for the moment.

“Mr. Waverly showed me the note.” He watched realization color Illya’s expression. “All that to protect me? Why didn’t you just tell me?” Seeing the cuts and bruises scattered across that pale skin, he was suddenly angry again, fumingly angry, thinking about all Illya had gone through, how much he would have preferred to have suffered it himself. And the reality that it could easily happen again.

“There is nothing,” he growled, “ _nothing_ you cannot trust me with. I understand that there are some things you wish to keep private, but never let it be out of fear. Don’t _ever_ be afraid to talk to me. That is an insult to me, and to our friendship.”

“I was just–” Illya began.

“Just what? Out of your goddamned mind? You have no faith in me. In my ability to defend myself. Keep myself alive.”

“That’s not true,” Illya said, closing and relocking his front door. “How many times can you come within a few inches of death before you realize you aren’t immortal?”

That was a truth Napoleon didn’t want to look at just then, so he took another tack. “Don’t you know that I’d rather have just let those bastards try to kill me than see you hand yourself over to them like that? What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

Illya’s eyes met his, a revelation that Napoleon was too angry to understand immediately. Then Illya shook his head, breaking the contact.

“I was thinking,” he began tiredly, passing one hand over his face, as if he’d had this discussion a dozen times already tonight, “that I would do anything to keep you alive.” The words were a surrender. Napoleon felt his eyes prickle.

“God _damn_ it...” He covered the distance between them and drew his partner into an embrace. “Don’t _ever_ do that again,” he said, his voice breaking, before he dropped his face against Illya’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Illya whispered, holding him as tightly as he was being held. Napoleon, breathing in the scent of warm, freshly washed skin, felt a laugh shudder out of him.

“ _You’re_ sorry?” he said, lifting his face. “If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t have had to go through all this in the first place.” He examined his partner’s taut face. “Jesus. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“No promises,” Illya said softly.

“No?”

“Not that one, anyway. And it wasn’t because of you. It was because of me. My past. You were just a convenient ... carrot.”

“Hm,” Napoleon said dubiously, leaning back to look at his partner’s face. “Anyway, if it happens again, don’t leave the carrot in the dark, all right? We work better as a team.”

Staring resolutely over Napoleon’s right shoulder, Illya said, “Is this an official reprimand?”

He looked and sounded exactly like a sullen teen-ager. Napoleon smiled, shook him gently. “You never listen to them anyway.” He reached up to brush overlong blond bangs away from Illya’s eyes. Illya jumped – only a little, but Napoleon felt it under his hands – and leaned away, looking at Napoleon with startled eyes. It was the easiest, most natural thing in the world for Napoleon to draw him closer and kiss him.

The first contact sent a strange, cool tickle across the surface of Napoleon’s skin, like a sudden sprinkling of fresh water. He held his partner lightly, exploring Illya’s warm mouth with his own, ready for a violent reaction if he was wrong. The hard-muscled shoulders relaxed under his hands, sending a thrill through him. Sliding his palms down his partner’s bare back, he pulled Illya closer and deepened the kiss, just a little, teasing with his tongue. Illya released a soft sound and melted against him, commandeering the kiss with hunger and surprising skill; Napoleon’s body responded with a surge of liquid fire and one of the quickest erections he’d gotten since he was a teen-ager.

Then Illya broke away, pushing him back. “No.”

“What ..?” Napoleon let himself be held off, gasping. Had he – could he possibly have – misread Illya this badly?

Flushed, eyes sparking, Illya growled, “You ... don’t need to ... humor me ...”

Napoleon blinked, dumbfounded. “What?” Every artery in his body throbbed to the hammering of his heart. He traced unsteady hands up Illya’s arms, a gentle request to continue. “I don’t understand.”

“Just ...” Illya pushed past him. “Go home, Napoleon.” He disappeared down the hall.

Humor...Napoleon wrapped his lust-hazed mind around Illya’s words. He thought he was being _humored_... that Napoleon was ... going along with his desire out of ... pity?

Napoleon spun around, followed his partner. That misapprehension was about to take one hell of a fall.

Napoleon silently followed Illya into the bathroom, where the Russian stood by the sink, one hand, fisted, hovering near the bulge at his groin.

Grinning inside, he sidled up behind Illya, laying his hands on his partner’s shoulders and glancing in the mirror. Illya froze, reddened.

Napoleon didn’t allow him a chance to get away. Instead he plastered himself full length against the Russian’s back, sliding both arms around the slender, muscular body, one at waist height, the other lower, pushing Illya’s hand out of the way.

“Allow me,” Napoleon purred in Illya’s ear. Illya began to protest – and the sound turned to a gasp as Napoleon cupped his erection, squeezed gently through the silky cloth. He held Illya’s body firmly against him, glancing in the mirror to see the Russian’s face, flushed, eyes lidded.

“Napoleon–” he again attempted protest, hands grasping spasmodically at Napoleon’s arms. Anyone else would be dead by now – that knowledge fueled Napoleon’s excitement.

“Yes?” Napoleon hummed, drawing the word out. He released his partner to swiftly draw the loose pajamas down, where they fell about Illya’s ankles. Both arms then roved across Illya’s chest before pulling the Russian taut against him. Again Napoleon locked one arm about Illya’s waist while the other hand danced teasingly down and around before coiling about Illya’s cock like a boa constrictor. Slowly. Napoleon squeezed, glancing in the mirror to see Illya’s jaw clench – though not fast enough to prevent a groan that sounded suspiciously like pleasure. He grinned, teeth grazing the back of Illya’s neck as his hand stroked.

“Shut up and enjoy it. I am.”

Illya, reached behind him, wrapping his hands around Napoleon’s firm cheeks and forcing them even closer together.

“Ah, god....” Napoleon groaned. “No fair.” He sank his teeth gently into Illya’s shoulder as the Russian leaned his head back. Napoleon kissed up his neck, waiting for Illya to turn his head to take his mouth in a deep, dizzying kiss as his hand moved faster, tighter. Illya pumped against him, clutching at Napoleon’s ass, and Napoleon found himself thrusting too.

Illya tensed and shuddered as he came; the sound, and the sight of his partner in the mirror, in his arms, flushed, eyes closed, mouth open, nearly made Napoleon come too, but he finished Illya off with a few more gentle strokes and another kiss, then moved away, turning his partner to look at him.

“That was better than doing it by yourself, I hope?”

Illya stared at him, wide-eyed, stunned. Napoleon, overcome by the trust and love he saw there – knowing he wasn’t likely to see it so plainly again – grabbed Illya’s face between his hands and drew him into a caressing kiss. When breathing became necessary, he drew back a few inches, still holding his partner’s face, confident that Illya, who knew him better than anyone, would see the truth of what he was feeling in his eyes.

Illya held his gaze a long silent moment, soft wonder focusing into firm intent as he ran his eyes along Napoleon’s body. The proprietary heat of that stare made Napoleon suck in his breath.

“What about you?” Illya asked, his voice low, languid.

Napoleon glanced down too, as if his entire body wasn’t throbbing with need. “What about me?”

Illya undid Napoleon’s belt, trousers button, zipper. Napoleon felt his breath coming faster at the sight of those nimble fingers stripping away all barriers between them. Illya pulled everything down, out of the way, then looked up at Napoleon with that mischievous half smile his partner knew so well.

Napoleon actually cried out when Illya slid slowly down to his knees, hands on Napoleon’s thighs, and took Napoleon’s cock in his mouth.

“Ah ... good god ... you are dangerous,” he gasped as Illya’s tongue danced around the head of his erection. His legs trembled and he leaned back against the sink – _Jesus, when was the last time you got weak in the knees?_ he mocked himself – then had no more thought for mockery, no thought for anything, nothing but electric sensation as Illya took him into his mouth. If not for the sink behind –  which he clutched mindlessly – he’d have sunk to the floor as that mouth embraced him, squeezed and teased him, bringing him to orgasm in a blaze of sensation that left him trembling and dazed.

Illya rose, and Napoleon stared at him. Limp, panting, he reached out to pull his partner close, leaning on that strength as he had countless times before.

After a long, calming silence, Illya said, laughter in his deep voice, “I do own a bed.”

Napoleon chuckled. “Is that so?”

Illya leaned back to look at him, eyes sparkling. “I can prove it.”

Napoleon’s hands traveled down his partner’s back, careful of the cuts he could feel under his palms. “It could be useful for further ... interrogations,” he admitted.

Illya’s brows rose. “Interrogations?”

Napoleon cupped his partner’s firm cheeks, pulling him tightly against his body. “Let’s just say there’s a lot more I want to know.” His lips took a leisurely tour of Illya’s face, neck, shoulders ... feeling his partner’s pulse accelerate under his mouth.

“Come on,” Illya said brusquely, pulling him bodily out of the bathroom and down the hall to the darkened bedroom.

“In a hurry?” Napoleon asked in mock-innocence – then grunted as his partner shoved him backward onto the bed, crawling over him, stopping to unbutton and remove his shirt. Napoleon sat up to facilitate removal of his vestiges of clothing, then laughed when he was again shoved back onto the bed. It was thrilling to be on the receiving end of his partner’s steely strength – literally; his nerves tingled as Illya pinned him down and covered his body in kisses, kisses with teeth in them.

No woman had ever made him feel like this – like a live wire, every touch a jolt along his spine. Even the illicit dalliances with THRUSH beauties faded in comparison. Because it was Illya. The only person in the world he trusted blindly.

Touching him, tasting him, Illya whispered Russian endearments as he explored Napoleon’s body. Illya’s rich tone, heated, breathless, speaking words he’d never spoken to Napoleon, made his blood surge, rekindling his arousal. He stroked Illya’s warm, velvety skin, every familiar inch new and exciting.

Napoleon pulled Illya close, closer, breathed across his ear, “I want to make love to you.”

He felt Illya’s silent laugh against his chest. “You are.” He slid his hands down his partner’s warm back,  touching Illya intimately, stroking, caressing, his erection swelling again as Illya started, gasping at the contact.

Illya lifted up a little, meeting his eyes, seeing his desire.

Napoleon held the look, the words crossing his mind but not his lips: He was asking, not demanding; the decision was Illya’s and he would have no complaint, whatever Illya chose. He knew he didn’t have to say any of it. That knowledge made him rise up to kiss his partner, a deep, languorous melding. When he lay back down, his partner straddled him, flushed, panting, hands braced trembling on Napoleon’s chest.

“You talked me into it,” he whispered, and slid his body downward, just a little.

“Oh, God...not so fast.” Napoleon caught him.  “We need ... something to make this easier on you.”  He sought for the words to explain, but Illya slipped out of his grasp, rolled and landed on his feet beside the bed. Napoleon was almost too startled to enjoy the view as his partner stalked into the adjacent bathroom, returning with a small bottle.

“Hey...” Napoleon began as Illya straddled him again, sitting on his thighs and opening the bottle. “How is it –?”

“Shut up,” Illya growled, handing Napoleon the lid. “You talk too much.” He tilted the bottle and trickled some clear liquid onto his fingers, then gave Napoleon the bottle. “Close that now,” he said, low, stroking his fingers across his palm and smiling. “I don’t want you to spill it.”

Napoleon fumbled the lid on and dropped the bottle on the bedside table.

Illya curled his fingers around Napoleon, stroking upward, lightly. Too lightly. Napoleon gritted his teeth as his hips tightened, pumping into Illya’s loose hold.

“Not yet,” Illya purred. “This isn’t what you want.”

Napoleon squinted at his partner, sat up and grabbed him by the hips. “You’re asking for it,” he warned, pulling Illya forward. Illya stroked him once more, hard, then let go, rising up. Napoleon caressed his cheeks, drawing him nearer, aching to have Illya’s body tight around him.

Illya grasped Napoleon’s erection and guided it, his own cock engorged, his eyes locked onto his partner’s as he sank down, slowly, thigh muscles tensed. Napoleon let him choose the pace, though his body was clenched with the need to pump into the slick tight heat that enveloped him.

Illya’s head fell back, eyes closed, feeling Napoleon inside him, filling him, braided pleasurepain. His cock pulsed, and he pulled Napoleon’s hands from his ass, guiding them to his erection as he eased himself completely onto his partner.

“God...” Napoleon gasped for air, for control, forcing himself not to push, his sweat-slicked hand squeezing Illya’s erection as if it were his own, frantic with his need to move. “God ... you feel good...”

Panting like a lion, Illya rose up again, slowly. He braced his hands on his partner’s chest, and Napoleon choked back a cry as Illya began to move. Slow, exquisitely tight strokes, then less slow, a steady hard rhythm, counterpoint to Illya’s uncontrolled sounds. Flaming, beyond thought, Napoleon let go his partner’s leaking cock and grasped his hips, pumping desperately.

Illya seized his hands – Napoleon froze, fear that he had hurt his partner reining in his need for an instant – until Illya gasped out, “More,” and drove down on him, forcing them together. Illya’s body squeezed, sparking lightning in Napoleon’s brain; he shouted as he came, hard, exploding into his partner, endlessly, draining strength and thought. Illya’s body trembled against him and, without thinking, he grasped his partner’s turgid cock, stroking hard as Illya came with a strangled groan. Hot fluid spurted across Napoleon’s chest, followed by the panting weight of his partner as Napoleon gently drew free of him, limp as a pool of water.

Napoleon wrapped his arms around Illya’s lax, damp form and held him close, savoring his presence with every inhalation. He waited until their breathing had eased, then said, “Is now a good time to get you to promise me something?”

Sated silence was followed by a warm murmur filling his ear: “I’ll come straight home from school unless I get kidnapped by THRUSH, I won’t talk to strangers unless I have to in order to save the world, and I’ll eat my vegetables unless they’ve been poisoned by one of the many criminal factions who want me dead.” He took Napoleon’s earlobe into his mouth briefly. “All right?” He pressed his face against Napoleon’s neck, exhaling a slow breath of sleepy satisfaction.

Napoleon sighed. How could he ask Illya to stop being who he was? “You read my mind,” he said, closing his eyes.

~*~*~

Illya awoke to the gentle sensation of feathery touches against his back. Smiling into the pillow, he tried to work up the energy to ask Napoleon what he was doing, but while the energy lay languid in his body, his partner’s tongue stroked across his right shoulderblade, over an old knife wound, and he understood.

At his shoulder, Napoleon paused. “Did I wake you?”

Illya forced the words out past his lassitude. “You can wake me like this any time.”

He closed his eyes and relaxed again under his partner’s soft laugh.

Deftly avoiding the new injuries, Napoleon explored every scar. Most of them he knew by heart already; he found himself murmuring as his lips traced them.

“Amsterdam ... Helsinki ... Buenos Aires ... Gdansk ... Los Angeles ...”

Illya finally chuckled. “You sound like a travelogue.”

Some of them, Napoleon didn’t know. His silence, as he loved those scars with fingers and mouth, made Illya raise his head and say, “If you want to know ... I’ll tell you.”

Napoleon lifted his face from a long scar on the back of Illya’s right arm. He looked at his partner, shook his head. “It’s enough that you’d tell me. I don’t need to know, unless you need to say.”

Illya turned over, holding his gaze, eyes soft with amazement. “Napoleon ...”

Napoleon smiled. “I know.”

Illya looked away, expression hardening, and Napoleon knew he’d finally allowed himself to go past the moment, to look at the consequences. When he spoke, his tone was exactly as Napoleon had expected it to be. Grim, hesitant, the voice of a man who saw a rough road ahead, to be traveled in the dark to an unknown destination.

“We crossed a line tonight–”

Napoleon shook his head. “We crossed that line a long time ago. Tonight was just admitting it. I’m sorry it took so long.” He wasn’t prepared to discuss consequences yet, but he was ready to face them. What matter how rough, if it was the road they chose?

“I think it had to.”

Napoleon considered. “Yes. With you, I was afraid–”

Illya chuckled.

“I’m serious. I was afraid of losing what we have. As much as I wanted you, I wouldn’t have risked losing everything else just for sex.”

“Was it just sex?” Illya looked at him, calmly. Napoleon took his hand, twining their fingers together, looking down at the knot he’d made. Two hard, square, strong, capable hands. Perfectly matched.

“No. That’s exactly it. The women ... I like them, don’t misunderstand, and it’s fun and exciting, but ... they don’t matter. You matter. More than anyone or anything. I wanted you to know that. I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I wasn’t sure either.” Illya smiled. “I’m sure now.”

Napoleon raised his brows. “You doubted me? You, of all people?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I always thought you could read me like a book.”

“Maybe I didn’t believe what I was reading.”

Napoleon grinned. “That’s you. Always the skeptic.”

“Speaking of skeptics ... you know this book isn’t likely to have a happy ending?”

“When did we ever expect that?”

 

The End

 


End file.
